Far Too Little We Know (Enclosed Triplets) (In Answer To John Keats) Poem by Gert Strydom

I

Not all kinds of things can be explained
by mere science or by some philosophy
and so the essence of life has remained

without its knowledge ever been gained
a very great kind of strange mystery
in that it does exist unrestrained,

when couples from pleasure have not abstained,
as in love some small cells brings a child to be
while after death life cannot be maintained

or knowledge of its wellspring be retained
while its source seems divine, something Godly;
not all kinds of things can be explained.

II

While some mysteries still has a haven
in their own undisturbed happenings
while human science still measures uneven;

if texture, colour and waves in heaven
of a rainbow is in the knowledge of things
the impact, the magic of it is not given,

even when men are despotic or craven,
on faith like butterflies, angels have wings,
as does remain the lore of the raven,

even the devil has hoofs that are cloven,
some stories have got some imaginings
while some mysteries still has a haven.

III

People might think I am on the loony side
but not all discoveries have been made
and to real faith some powers remain wide,

a man may have a tender hearted bride
as true love's mysteries do not just fade
while all their guests do them well wishes bide,

when hidden facts appear from where they hide,
new kinds of things may appear from the shade,
with knowledge man wants to rule and divide,

in life by limited resources we decide
the way of things and do others persuade
and to real faith some powers remain wide.

IV

Yet still far too little we do know
even of ourselves and of our earth,
about the way that everything does go,

we experience the sun's early glow
while we learn and adapt from our very birth
are caught by the wonder of drops of snow,

yearn for something more beyond the shadow,
for a Supreme Being that knows our true worth
in life's daily continuous ebb and flow

and in rebellion we suffer blow by blow,
while to existence there is no rebirth,
yet still far too little we do know.

[Reference: 'Lamia' by John Keats.]